


but you're somebody else

by lamprophony



Series: it hurts until it doesn't [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Begging, Body Horror, Bondage, Dean Winchester Has Self-Esteem Issues, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Handcuffs, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, No Safeword, Painful Sex, Painplay, Physical Abuse, Rough Sex, Safeword Use, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Soulless Sam Winchester, mentions of gore, mild gore mentioned not part of sex to be clear, very light tho, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-04-22 18:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22199827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamprophony/pseuds/lamprophony
Summary: Set Season 6, before Dean realizes Sam doesn't have a soul anymore.Dean tries to cope after a hunt goes wrong. Sam's there, but not to help.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: it hurts until it doesn't [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571341
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	but you're somebody else

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely references the first fic in the series, but can be read as a stand alone.

Dean knows he fucked up. 

He doesn’t need to look at Sam and see the confirmation in the tight line of his mouth and hunch in his shoulders. 

“Just save it, Sam.” Dean’s already pulling a beer from the fridge, pops it open and downs half of it in one go. He pulls out a second one for Sam but doesn’t hand it to him, just sets it down on the table. 

“I fucking _told_ you, Dean.” Sam’s fuming, anger burning bright and righteous, displayed aggressively in the long lines of his body. Sam reminds him of Dad, sometimes, when he gets angry like this; so much pissed off self-righteousness, eternally frustrated by Dean’s shortcomings. “I told you, Dean, but god forbid you fucking _listen_ to me for once in your goddamn life – ”

“What do you want me to say, Sam?” Dean snaps. “I know, okay? I fucking know. So you can just – ”

Sam moves fast, faster than Dean expects, and shoves Dean up against the fridge. Dean’s half-empty bottle of beer slips from his hand, smashes on the floor. Sam doesn’t seem to care or notice, leans in and kisses Dean, bruisingly hard, teeth clacking together unpleasantly. Dean’s still for a split second before he’s shoving back, too, giving Sam as good as he gets. 

It feels like a reprieve, like Sam’s handing Dean a goddamn get-out-of-jail-free card. Dean feels the tiredness bone-deep, can’t stand the thought of another evening filled with endless, repetitive back-and-forth arguments, but this he can do. He wants to push his own failure out of his mind, forget the image of the girl’s wide open, dead eyes, a permanent expression of horror and surprise etched on her face. 

They stumble away from the kitchen together, Sam yanking Dean along with a hand fisted in the collar of his shirt. Dean’s following the best he can, willing, but he somehow can’t manage to get his legs under him, finds himself being half-pushed, half-dragged, and shoved down on the bed. 

Sam bends him over the edge of the bed roughly. The rough denim of Sam’s jeans rub against Dean’s ass, doing nothing to hide Sam’s growing hardness. Sam preps him, quick and merciless, aggressively stretching him open with two lube-covered fingers. Then the pressure is abruptly gone, leaving Dean cold and empty. 

“Beg for it,” Sam says. His cock is lined up with Dean’s hole, the head of his dick hot as it brushes against Dean. 

“Fuck you.” Pain sears through his scalp as Sam grabs a handful of his hair and yanks his head back. Dean grits his teeth, stubborn. Sam curls his other hand around Dean’s left shoulder and reaches down, pushes his fingertips into the soft pink scar tissue there. Dean can’t help the way his body tenses in anticipation of pain, tries to pull his shoulder away, but all it does is press Sam’s fingers in harder. 

“You want it to hurt, is that it?” Sam whispers into Dean’s ear, voice calm and understanding. His fingers twist in Dean’s hair cruelly one last time before letting go. His hand meanders down his side to rest lightly on his ribcage, touches some of the dark purpling marks there. “Why should I do what you want when you don’t listen to me, Dean?” 

“Maybe I’ll just stop,” Sam says. “We can stop and talk about how that girl died today because of you.” Dean feels like Sam stabbed a knife and twisted, deep in his gut. He shakes his head wordlessly. Sam touches his hair again, gently this time. “No?” Sam’s voice is quiet, cold. “Then you know what to do.”

Dean shudders, feeling the sticky fingers of nausea curling in his belly. “C’mon, fuck me,” he says gruffly. He knows Sam’s not going to go for it before the words leave his mouth. 

True enough, Sam doesn’t move. Still and unimpressed. 

“Okay, jesus,” Dean says, “Fuck me, Sam, come on.” Nothing. Dean rubs his ass against Sam’s crotch but Sam just pulls away. “_Please_, Sam, fuck me. Fuck me up. Come on please – ”

Dean’s rewarded, finally, with Sam putting a hand on the back of his neck, silencing him by shoving his face into the mattress. “Fuck you up, huh?” Sam bites the back of Dean’s neck, hard enough to draw blood through his shirt. His hand is still curled up around the scar tissue on Dean’s left shoulder and he squeezes, sending starbursts of pain through the recently healed wound. “I can do that.”

The angle’s slightly wrong, Sam’s cock completely missing Dean’s prostate, but Dean doesn’t care. Sam didn’t use enough lube or prep him well enough, so Sam’s dick chafes and pulls at his skin, the stretch sending sharp pinpricks through his lower back.

It helps, but it’s not enough. 

“That’s all you fucking got?” Dean turns his head enough to glance back at Sam, lip curled mockingly. “You fuck like a bitch, you know that?”

The comment hits Sam’s buttons exactly the way Dean knew it would. Sam stills for a minute, hands clenching briefly where they make contact with Dean’s body. He pulls away and walks towards the kitchen, and for a brief moment of panic Dean wonders if Sam’s going to leave. But he just grabs something from his duffle bag and comes back, shoves Dean on the bed. 

Sam flips him then, fast and easy, and Dean lets him, lets him yank his body around and push him so he’s sprawled out on the mattress. Dean shifts on the bed, kicks his jeans off the rest of the way and pulling his shirt over his head. Sam’s on him in a flash, bodyweight heavy over Dean. He pulls Dean’s arms above his head toward the bedposts, and Dean feels cold metal circling his wrists and snapping into place. 

Sam’s quiet for a long moment, eyes dark and intense as he stares down at Dean. Usually Dean can’t get Sam to shut up during sex, his mouth running constantly about this or that. The one-time Dean had joking suggested Sam needed a gag he’d been treated to a few weeks of pissy silences and dark looks. He almost misses it, now, wishes Sam would insult him or complain or just. Say _something._

Sam shoves his thumb into Dean’s weak shoulder and Dean can’t help the groan that escapes. Sam presses down harder, so hard Dean feels like Sam’s going to split open the shiny healed-over skin with just his fingers, and Dean clenches his teeth to keep in the scream. He’s still pressing on the spot as he pushes Dean’s legs up and starts fucking into him again, harsh and punishing. 

“Is this better, Dean?” Sam asks, voice infused with false concern. “Meet your standards, hmm?” 

“Well, if it’s the best you can do.” Dean bares his teeth up at Sam in a parody of a smile. His split-open tongue feels fat and raw in his mouth.

Sam releases his shoulder abruptly, just long enough for Dean to take his first real breath. Then he’s back, shoving the heel of his palm over the biggest knot of scar tissue, where the cut was deepest. Dean lets out a muffled shout, shocked by the visceral pain that shoots through his chest and travels all the way down his arm. Sam grinds his heel in for a minute, dark eyes watching Dean’s open mouth as he pants helplessly. 

“You’re good with pain, aren’t you Dean?” Sam says conversationally. “It’s talking that you can’t stand.”

He leans in, bites at Dean’s ear. Whispers. “What happened to that girl, Dean?” 

“Get the fuck off me,” Dean snarls. Sam covers Dean’s mouth with his hand and fucks him harder, deeper. He digs his fingertips into the fresh bruise on Dean’s ribcage, pressing in agonizingly at the soft spot beneath Dean’s ribs. 

“I guess I have to make you listen, Dean, since you’re too fucking stubborn otherwise.” 

Dean bites Sam’s hand, front teeth digging hard into the meat of his palm. Sam shifts easily, presses him down until Dean’s jaw is aching from the pressure. 

“I told you we needed to go back. But you won’t listen to me, insisted we have to do things _your way_. If you weren’t such a stubborn bastard we could have killed it, saved some lives. Instead we spent the night trying to keep that girl’s guts in her goddamn body. _You_ did that.”

Bile rises in Dean’s throat and the flash of memory feels all-consuming, visceral – she’d been so horribly warm, blood and gore spilling out of her belly and onto Dean’s hands. 

“Stop, _stop_.” Dean’s gasping, trying to pull his body into itself. He can’t handle this, can’t handle Sam reminding him of what he’s trying to forget. He needs to get away. “Fucking stop, I’m serious, I don’t want to do this anymore, let me go –” Dull panic is rising in his chest and he yanks on the handcuffs uselessly. They feel sharp and strangely wet, and Dean registers vaguely that he’s pulled them hard enough to break skin. 

“You egged me on and now you can’t fucking take it,” Sam says flatly. Dean flinches, face turned away and eyes closed. Sam’s not moving, a dark, still presence over Dean. 

“Sam, c’mon, I know, I know,” Dean whispers. If Sam doesn’t want to stop there’s nothing Dean can do about it, and for a horrified moment he thinks Sam’s not going to listen to him, will just keep going, keep _talking_.

It’s hard to see through the sting of unshed tears, the dim light of the room casting grotesque shadows over Sam’s sharp cheekbones. “Please, Sammy. You gotta stop.”

“I don’t _gotta_ do anything,” Sam says darkly, and Dean feels his heartbeat stutter in his chest. But Sam’s already pulling out, reaching up and unlocking the cuffs so Dean can curl into himself. He gets up and Dean hears the water running in the bathroom, returns with a damp washcloth. He stands next to the bed looking down at Dean for a moment. 

“What,” Dean croaks. He doesn’t look up. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Sam says softly. He looks sad, now, all the anger gone. Dean twitches away from his touch but he’s nothing but gentle as he wipes Dean down, examines his wrists closely. “I – I went too far, Dean. I’m sorry.”

Relief bubbles in Dean’s chest at the words. Sam’s been off lately, just a little meaner, just a little crueler. For a moment it feels like his old Sam is back, all big apologetic eyes and soft hands. 

“I’m just frustrated, you know. I wish you’d listen to me.”

Dean nods silently. He shouldn’t have pushed Sam, shouldn’t have tried to make Sam be the one to scratch the itch he got after a bad hunt. He could go out and find another guy, someone safe and easy, if he wanted it like that. It should never be Sam. 

Sam was too close, too frustrated, honest to the point of cruelty in his anger. (_What happened to that girl, Dean?_) With way he was, surely feeling today’s loss as hard as Dean was – Dean had pushed him too far. (_You did that._)

(He can’t stop picturing the dark purple-red of her intestines before he'd covered them up with his hands, told her _don’t look sweetheart you’ll be fine just don’t look_)

He wouldn’t have thought Sam was able to be pushed that far. 

But he was learning all sorts of new things about Sam, these days.


End file.
